


In quella parte del libro della mia memoria

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, M/M, Other, Religious Conflict, Religious Themes, Spoilers, UST, post-2x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He promised. He made a promise to God. Aramis is content to be here--knows it's right, knows it's what he's meant to be doing now.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The loss is penance, too. The constant, gnawing loss devouring his heart is only what he deserves.</i>
</p><p>- - -</p><p>Aramis finds the keeping of his vow is somewhat harder than the making of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In quella parte del libro della mia memoria

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first half of this in a frenzy after seeing the American airing of the finale; the second half, in a frenzy today after everyone else's viewing of it. All disjointed mistakes are mine.

His first night at the monastery, Aramis sleeps like the dead. He's exhausted from the ride, from the days before, and the abbot's sweet blessing--a simple _You are welcome, my son,_ that lifts him more than he could possibly imagine--eases his mind and his soul, and that first night, as his head touches his pillow, he knows he's made the right choice.

His first day at the monastery, Aramis loses himself in the rhythms of the prayers, regular and beautiful. When he's not praying, he is set to scrubbing dishes in the refectory. It's not glamorous, it leaves his hands red and raw, and he knows he is being tested, tried out to see if he's going to stay. He doesn't mind. He had to do this when he first joined the regiment, after all; this is the same.

When they finish the last prayers of the day and silence falls, silence not to be broken until morning, Aramis walks in a line with the other monks back to his dormitory. The hall is lined with long, lovely windows, and Aramis looks out--drinks in the peace. The moon is rising, a perfect crescent over the gate, and it is resting precisely on the top of the cross that watches over the gates.

It's beautiful, and he feels complete, serene.

Without thinking, he turns to show Porthos, to make sure his brother has seen how perfect it is.

The empty space beside him is puzzling for a moment--that's all, just a curiosity--before it begins to _ache_ , and Aramis remembers that he has new brothers, now.

Oh.

His second night at the monastery, Aramis does his very best not to break the silence, and muffles his tears into his pillow until he cries himself asleep.

\- - -

He promised. He made a promise to God. Aramis is content to be here--knows it's right, knows it's what he's meant to be doing now. Even as he scrubs pans and feels his skin wear away, even as his back grows stiff and aching during vigils (he is not as young as he was in seminary, God have mercy on his bones), he feels at peace, knowing that he's atoning.

The loss is penance, too. The constant, gnawing loss devouring his heart is only what he deserves.

Every time he looks for Porthos' smile and does not see it, it's a gentle reminder from God that he is here for a reason. Every time he is poring over a text in the library, finds a passage that sparks, and tilts his head to call Athos over, the sting of loneliness is good.

He milks the cows, for the monks' breakfast, and the sense ghost of d'Artagnan's hand clapping on his shoulder nearly makes him spill a bucket.

But as calm as he is about his pain--can accept it with an easiness, almost, letting the waves of grief pull at him every time they wash in--he cannot stop missing them, desperately.

The tears still come, every night, and when Aramis rises for Matins every morning, he's glad he no longer has to care for his appearance. He catches a glimpse of himself in the serving trays occasionally, as he polishes them clean, and his eyes are always shadowed with lack of sleep, his hair only barely decent. (The abbot has not, yet, made him cut his hair. Aramis assumes it will come after his novitiate, such as it is, has ended. He dreads the day.)

His mourning for his old life only eases when he sits in prayer, lifts his voice with his new brothers, and reminds himself why he's here.

He endangered them all. He nearly killed them all. His foolish, headstrong heart nearly destroyed everyone and everything he loved. 

It's better for him to be here, to calm his wild heart and let them be safe from its recklessness.

Isn't it?

\- - -

"Philippe tells me you still do not sleep," the abbot says to him, a week and a half into Aramis' time at the monastery. They're weeding the physic garden, both down on their knees in the mud, and Aramis closes his eyes and breathes in earth, greenery, spring beginning.

This is not the confession chamber, and yet.

"I don't like sleeping alone," Aramis says softly. "I never have." 

"Is that why," the abbot says lightly, "you were driven to us?" It's like a conversation with a friend, casual, free of judgment, and Aramis knows this is how it is to speak to God.

Aramis sits back on his heels, staring at the bright rue growing beneath his hands. "I loved a woman," he says, his voice distant to his own ears. "She was married. We--" _We have a child. I love her still._ "We nearly destroyed ourselves."

And everything else, he does not say, but still the abbot nods, taking Aramis' sins in his hands and turning over the dirt in the garden, burying them there to bring new life to the plants.

"Surely you did not spend every night with her, if she were wed," the abbot says then, and Aramis looks at him, frowning. The abbot's gaze is clear, direct--reminds him of Treville. "You say you cannot sleep alone. But you could not have slept in this woman's bed."

"No," Aramis concedes, less careful than he'd usually be. He's caught up in the warm, grateful rush of being understood, accepted. "No, I had my brothers."

He regrets it the moment he's said it--it sounds like more than it was, something that could bring condemnation down on them again. As innocent as it was.

He and Porthos slept in each other's beds nearly every night; it only mattered whose lodgings were closer to the tavern they'd picked. Aramis cannot remember a night when they were safe in Paris, and without any mistress' bed to warm, that did not end with him and Porthos stumbling home together. He knows the feeling of Porthos' back against his better than any other feeling--could pick the sound of Porthos' breathing out of the loudest rainstorm.

And when Athos, too, would stay the night, Aramis slept the soundest of all. All three of them, piled together, watching over each other night and day.

He is crying, he realizes dimly, on the mint.

"You had brothers you loved," the abbot says, and lays his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "It is good that you grieve at your parting, but remember to turn your thoughts to God."

Aramis closes his eyes, leans into the touch. He hasn't touched another person in too long. 

"Thank you, father," he says, and tries to turn his thoughts from the way Porthos would hold him like that, too.

\- - -

He doesn't succeed. 

He can't just be easy about it anymore, accept it as his punishment. It's too raw, and this doesn't feel as right as it did, anymore. It just feels like pain, like he's come to try and get away from his sins and now they're all here, all over again.

He wakes aching in a way he hasn't in a long time. He doesn't know if it's panic--if it's his body abruptly realizing he's decided to deny it everything it's been accustomed to for so long, and launching a violent attack in protest--but whatever it is, he is not used to waking thinking of Porthos _holding_ him. 

He is still a mess, every Matins. He expects the abbot to throw him out on his ear any day now, and then Aramis will never get the absolution he came here _needing._

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," he says in confession, craving it, on the verge of begging for it. It doesn't help, doesn't lead to any expiation, but he just doesn't know what else to do. 

"May the Lord be in your heart, and help you to confess your sins with true repentance," his confessor says, and Aramis knows the gentle voice of his abbot.

He doesn't even know where to start. "I've broken so many commandments," he says at last. "I have killed, I have committed adultery, I have coveted my neighbor's wife. I have probably dishonored my father and mother. I have stolen, I have taken the Lord's name in vain. I've done all those things on Sundays, probably."

"Since your last confession, my son?" his confessor asks, not a little dryly, and Aramis has to laugh.

Then it reminds him of Athos, and his heart aches, and he remembers why he's here.

"I think I've--" He can't say it, he can't _say_ it, which means he has to, which means it's the worst of all and he must say it first. 

Aramis breathes, and breathes, and the father waits for him.

"I think I've broken the first commandment," Aramis manages to say at last, feeling small, and weak, and unworthy.

"What other gods," the father asks softly, "have you kept above the Lord our God?"

Aramis is crying. He can't stop. He doesn't know why. He's so ashamed of himself, but he doesn't know what else it could mean.

"I cannot turn my thoughts away from my brothers," he whispers. "I think of them before God, before all things. I miss them, father. I've caught myself wishing that I could be with them, instead of here. I think of them in prayer, in meditation, in Mass, in sleep."

His voice breaks. "I see them in my dreams, and I go to my knees for them, for _their_ absolution, and not for His."

And that should be the worst--he's confessed to the abbot himself that he can barely bring himself to think of God, what could possibly be worse?--but somehow it's not. He has to say the rest. Has to say more.

His voice is locked in his throat, and he can't--he wants to--he _can't--_

"Do you seek solely their benediction, my son?" the father asks quietly.

Aramis shudders all over, with shame and grief and half-remembered heat like a sickness, and buries his face in his hands.

"No," he croaks. "No, I seek their touch. I crave it. I--I have always--" Panic floods his throat, he can't stop talking, explaining-- "I never, never let myself, you have to understand, but I have always--I always wanted it, wanted them close, but I could never. Never infect them with my own weakness. They are good men, father."

"You would not love them if they were not," the abbot says gently, soothing him, and Aramis can breathe, until he can't, until he hears the words over again in his head and understands them anew.

"I love them," he whispers. "God help me, God above, I love them more than I have ever loved anything." 

More than his family, more than the friends he had had--more than anyone he's lain with, more than anyone else he's ever loved. Anne is apart, his son is apart--but they will never be his, and all his love for them can be is a tiny candle in a hidden box. Bright, unquenchable, but small and secret. Never to consume him utterly.

His love for Porthos, for Athos, is everywhere, always. It is the air. It's his blood. It's always around him, always in him, and he cannot be rid of it.

 _God_ should be always with him. God is meant to be everywhere, in everything, but Aramis cannot fill himself with God. He's already filled.

Aramis rubs his tears into his skin, gasps for air. "I can't give myself to God, father, I have already given myself to them."

The abbot sighs, gentle and soft. "You are a creature of passions, my son. You rule yourself with your heart."

Aramis laughs thickly. "Yes, that's always been my problem."

"Do you love God as much as you love your friends?"

Aramis tries to bring it into him, the safe and pure feeling he touches when he's in Mass, when he takes the sacrament and sings with the other monks. When he prays, when he touches the cross and rosary around his neck, yes, he feels at peace, he feels love, he feels hope.

He thinks of Athos' smile, of Porthos' arms around him, and his chest nearly cracks open with the love he feels.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't think so." 

"They are worldly, my son," the abbot presses him gently. "Their lives are earthly things."

"Their souls are brighter than the sun." Aramis knows this, more than his own name, even. 

"And it is that in them that you worship?"

 _Among other things,_ is Aramis' first, slightly hysterical thought.

But even if Athos' eyes were clouded and gray, if Porthos' arms could not hold him any longer, he would still love them without question. It is their goodness that he loves above all else.

"Yes."

"If it is the spark of the divine in them that you love," the abbot tells him, "that is good. There is hope, there. But you came here to purge that inconstancy in yourself, did you not?"

Aramis cannot bear to lift his head from his hands. "Yes. No. I don't know."

 _Why,_ damn him? Why did he _really_ come here? He can't even remember right now. He made a promise in his cell, a promise to devote himself to God, but he could have found other ways to do that. He wanted to make himself better, to tame his heart to keep them from danger.

He came here, God help him, to save them from himself. 

"I'm not worthy," he says, sure of that, at least. "Not of God and not of them."

The abbot's voice is the only thing that he can hear, from the dark in the booth, the dark of his hands pressing on his eyes. "You do not have to be worthy for God to love you, my son. You are His child, and therefore you deserve His love."

"I have not honored Him, father."

"You have served his holy Christian king, and that is good."

 _I have cuckolded his holy Christian king,_ Aramis does not say, and feels more guilt at that. But he has served Louis, true. He would not see his king come to any harm. The king is a bad husband and a weak politician, but he serves God, too. Louis wants what's best for his country and his people. Aramis' motives aren't nearly so altruistic. He is a patriot, but if he had to choose between saving France and saving his brothers, he knows which one he'd pick. 

God would forgive him for that, surely. God's commandment is to love.

No, God's commandment is to honor Him, what is Aramis _doing?_

"I'm so confused, father," Aramis whispers. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore."

The abbot is quiet for a long few breaths. 

When he does speak, it is firmly, if still gently. "Take the Stations of the Cross, my son, and see if you can remember what our Lord Jesus Christ did to make himself truly divine."

Aramis bows his head as the abbot says the ritual absolution. He doesn't feel absolved, but maybe his penance will help.

And it does, a bit. He looks up at the carvings of Jesus carrying the cross, as he makes his way along them, and can understand the pain, the fear and betrayal, like he never has before.

It's easier to pray to Jesus than to his Father. Jesus was a man, like Aramis. Jesus loved the Magdalene, Aramis has always thought. Jesus loved his mother, his disciples. His own brothers. 

Aramis thought he was sacrificing himself to save his brothers, too. But as he sits at the station of the Crucifixion, his eyes on the spear deep in his Lord's side, Aramis wonders what kind of fool he was, to think this self-indulgent fit of self-loathing of his is anything close to divine.

As clearly as if he were sitting beside him, he hears Athos say, _We could have told you that._

 _Be nice,_ Porthos' ghost voice says in his other ear. _He's trying._

Aramis sits at the station of the Crucifixion for a very long time, torn between wanting to hear their voices and wanting to hear God's.

Maybe God would never speak to one such as him.

Or maybe they're as close as he'll ever get.

 _Is it so bad if you see God in us?_ d'Artagnan whispers to him. 

_You told me once,_ Porthos reminds him, _that love could never be a sin._

 _You told me once,_ Athos says, so very quietly, _that the heart was boundless._

He had. Athos had snorted at him and shaken his head. It was very early into their acquaintance, and they had all been drunk. 

Aramis hadn't remembered until just now.

 _You have never made yourself choose a love until now,_ Athos' voice says.

 _Do you have to make a choice?_ Porthos murmurs to him. _Who says you have to choose?_

 _Me,_ Aramis argues. _I say. I cannot love Him while I still love you, can I?_

 _Can you?_ Athos parrots back, infuriatingly.

 _You say,_ Porthos says. He's almost laughing. _You? Whose house are you in, brother? You don't get to make the rules._

His Christ looks down at him almost in pity, and Aramis is starting to understand his own hubris. He came here expecting that God would absolve him. If he showed up, he would get his reward. Scrubbed a few pots, said a few prayers, and he could change in an instant.

What a monumental fool he is, really.

Eventually, he crosses himself and gets up.

His head is quiet.

\- - -

Aramis tests it out, slowly. As he prays in the mornings, he thanks God for the new day, and for Jesus Christ his son, and then for Porthos and Athos and d'Artagnan and Constance, for Treville and all the rest.

He no longer makes himself turn his thoughts away from them, when they come. He plants herbs in the physic garden and thinks about when he made this or that draught for Athos, to ease his headaches.

He says grace at his mealtimes, and thanks God for the brothers who always kept him fed and cared for, who watched his back and trusted him with their. He scrubs pots in the scullery and thinks of Porthos' stew, the one he'd always make when it was his turn to cook and there was a rabbit for catching. 

Every rider on the road is d'Artagnan, as in tune with his mount as his own body. Every young sister from the convent who comes to trade honey for their herbs reminds him of Constance, in her self-assuredness, her certainty of self.

He says his prayers at night and asks God to watch over his brothers, to have Athos be free from grief, to have Porthos never be alone, and he sleeps, at last. He can get through the day without being so exhausted he's always on the edge of tears. He still wakes aching from his dreams, but. But.

Well, he's going to, isn't he? Always. For the rest of his life. If being here were easy for him, it wouldn't mean anything. If devoting his life to God were as easy for him as soldiering, as loving, then God wouldn't ask it of him.

It's getting easier, but it will never be easy. He will always miss his old life. He will always miss his brothers. He will always love them. 

He supposes that will be the test.

\- - -

His twenty-eighth morning at the monastery, a young novice comes to find him in the library. Aramis is trying his hand at copying a manuscript, and failing miserably. He can't get the letters to curve the way they should, angle in the right places.

"The abbot asks if you'd please come," the novice says. "There are gentlemen here, he sent me to fetch you."

Aramis follows, leaving his manuscript with some relief. But still, he's confused--confused and a little worried. Gentlemen? Courtiers, does he mean, or nobles? They'd _finished_ all that mess at the palace, Rochefort was dead, why would--had the King changed his mind? 

"Are they not in the abbot's rooms?" Aramis asks, trying to ignore the surging of his heart as the novice leads him towards the front of the monastery. 

"No, they're outside, they say they cannot leave their horses."

A dreadful suspicion begins to grow in Aramis' chest. 

And a hope.

He crushes it as soon as it begins to grow; it's absurd to think about. This is his heart ruling him again. He misses his brothers; of course he thinks it's them. But it couldn't be. They're in Paris, and he's here. And even if they weren't in Paris, if they were riding out on some errand, they still wouldn't stop in just because they were passing through. They let him go. They know what this means to him, that he has to do this. They wouldn't just come for a visit to distract him from his purpose. They wouldn't reopen the wound just as he's starting to let it heal.

Aramis and the novice pass through the door to the outer walk, that leads to the courtyard, and it's a lovely day, and the birds are singing, and Aramis does not heard a bit of it. He's too far in his head, suddenly.

He can't break himself of the hope that it's his brothers. He still wants to see them, even if it'll make it harder, if he'll have to go through the last four weeks all over again. He's only human. He's a stupid little human, he's not God or Christ, he's a man and he loves with his whole being and he loves them, all he wants to do is see them.

But he's getting his hopes up now, and it isn't _going_ to be them. Aramis knows. In the deepest part of his heart, he knows it's not going to be them, no matter how much he's wishing. So why is he doing this to himself? What point could it possibly serve? 

He follows the novice down the stairs to the courtyard, and wonders why he can't just let them go.

He loves them too much to let them go, that much is obvious. But he's meant to love God more.

Isn't he?

His own words to Athos so long ago come back to him, again, and Aramis wonders why he meant them then, and has forgotten them now. How narrow-minded he's being, thinking there's only one way to do this.

He can love them and still have room in his heart for God. If he's trying to be more godly, then maybe he should try to make his heart as infinite as God's.

Aramis is too deep in his thoughts to pay attention to where their novice is taking him; his brain does not pay any mind to the sounds he's so used to. Safe, trusted, comforting sounds.

So when the novice's voice jars him from his reverie, with a piping young "here, sir," Aramis realizes two things at once.

First, that he has found himself in the courtyard, and second--

That ever since they stepped outside, those safe, trusted, comforting sounds have been the whickering of horses, the clink of weapons, and the rumble of deep voices--now politely paused.

Aramis' head snaps up, hardly daring to believe.

"Forgive me," Athos says, as dry as ever. "If we had known you were so deep in contemplation, we would have sent word ahead."

Athos is standing beside the abbot's bench, next to the rose bush. Porthos stands with the horses, d'Artagnan is still perched on his own mount. They're here. All three of them. They're _here._

Aramis stares at them with his mouth open. 

"He was not expecting you," the abbot says mildly.

"We can see that," d'Artagnan says, still on his horse and leaning on the pommel, grinning broadly.

He'd decided it wasn't going to be them. How can it be them?

His eyes slide to Porthos, and his heart, so ready to make itself quiescent only moments before, gives a leap in his chest, so hard it's painful--a limb asleep, coming alive again in a rush of pins and needles.

Porthos is smiling at him, hopeful and sweet and so wide Aramis is blinded.

Aramis half-expects the convent to collapse around him. A bolt of lightning. He is thinking the most unholy things right now.

"What are you doing here?" he forces out of his aching chest. It's terse, and he knows it sounds rude, it breaks his heart when Porthos' smile falters--but he is just too bewildered to say anything else. He has to know what's happening, why, before he lets himself feel anything. 

Athos straightens and turns to him fully, and it's only then that Aramis notices the change in his clothes. The new mark of rank on his pauldron.

 _"Captain?"_ he says incredulously, striding across the courtyard to them, his hesitation gone. "What is it, what's happened?" Athos would never, ever have taken the promotion without a very good reason, and--no, God, not Treville, what's happened to--

"It was on Minister Treville's suggestion," Athos says, always in tune to Aramis' churning thoughts.

Aramis stares again. "Minister," he echoes. Minister for what? Not First Minister, no.

He looks to Porthos and d'Artagnan in silent appeal--and realizes, for the first time, that they are far too heavily armed. Their horses are packed for a long journey. 

Oh. Not just _their_ horses.

Aramis moves forward, feeling like he's sleepwalking, and reaches out to take Apollon's reins from d'Artagnan. His warhorse whickers and steps eagerly forward, snuffling and nuzzling at Aramis' face, and he stares at his arquebus, all his gear, hanging on Apollon's saddle.

Aramis rests his forehead against Apollon's, stroking his horse's nose. "What happened?" he asks again, his throat almost too tight to speak. "What's wrong?"

"War," Athos says, very quietly. "With Spain."

Aramis turns to stare at him.

Athos and Porthos' faces are very grave, and it's no joke.

"Aramis," Porthos says, and Aramis lets himself look at Porthos. He knows it will destroy him, but he looks at Porthos, drinks his face in.

Porthos' eyes shine wetly in the afternoon sunlight, and Aramis' own vision blurs with tears. 

"Brother," Porthos says, low and quiet, "we need you."

Aramis can't breathe for a few heartbeats. When he can, when the squeezing vise of his heart has eased, Aramis is grateful. 

At least he will break his vow for nothing less than outright war.

Then his own thoughts catch up to him.

His heart and his head churn against each other for a dizzying eternity, but it's clear what wins--what's won already.

_God forgive me._

He passes Apollon's reins back to d'Artagnan, turns, and kneels in the dirt of the courtyard before the abbot. 

The abbot lays his hands on Aramis' head, soft against his hair. "You will still serve God in this, my son," the abbot says, and kisses his forehead in benediction. "If you feel again that this is your path, you can always return."

It really shouldn't surprise Aramis that it's truly that easy.

But then, he does excel at making things twice as difficult for himself as they really need to be.

Aramis' tears of gratitude wet the dirt, and he takes the abbot's hands and kisses them.

Then he straightens and turns to his brothers. "Let me go change," he says, plucking at his robe with one hand. "Wait here?"

"I will," d'Artagnan says, swinging down off his horse. "The two of them gave me the impression you're not to be allowed out of sight for at least six months."

Aramis feels himself flush, looking to Porthos and Athos, who don't look the slightest bit as ashamed of themselves as they should.

Athos spreads his hands with an aristocratic tilt of the eyebrow, and Porthos crosses his arms. "Well," he says bluntly, "you keep running away when we do."

Aramis laughs. 

It feels like the first time he has really, truly laughed in a month, and he lets them escort him up to his dormitory to fetch his things.

\- - -

"No one here?" Porthos asks quietly as they enter the broad-beamed room. 

Aramis shakes his head, tilts his head to see the sun out the window. "Everyone's at work, I'm sure."

He's practically humming with adrenaline. Now that he's going back--now that it's all right to be excited again--he can feel all his muscles itching, restive with a month's inactivity. Hauling water and planting gardens and fetching and carrying have kept him in condition, but his hands twitch for his sword, his musket.

The small trunk at the end of his bed has all the worldly possessions he brought--the clothes on his back, and his Bible. Aramis opens it, stares at his meager possessions, and is so very glad his brothers knew him well enough to bring the rest of his things.

In a sudden burst of impatience, he rips his robe off over his head and grabs for his shirt. "Tell me everything," he says as takes his clothes out of his trunk. "Everything that's been happening."

"Treville is war minister," Athos tells him. "We ride to meet the regiment at the border. And Porthos has won a bet."

Aramis looks sharply over his shoulder at Porthos. 

Porthos grins shamelessly at him. "I said you wouldn't even have to think about it. Athos thought we'd need to do at least a little convincing."

Aramis glares at him.

And then it hits him, really, truly.

They're here. He has them back. He's allowed to have this--this, too, is God's will.

His heart gives another painful slam in his chest, and Aramis sways forward, drawn inexorably to them, as always, as ever.

They catch him. They move forward in unison and embrace him, Aramis throws his arms around them, and it is so very appropriate that he's in just his smallclothes, he feels naked, he feels--

Baptized, anew. 

"I've missed you so much," he whispers. 

Their arms tighten around him, and he feels Porthos press a fierce kiss to his temple. "We know you wanted this," he begins, "we know you wanted to stay, but we had to--"

"I'm glad you came," Aramis interrupts him, pulling back to gaze at them, to drink in their faces again. Athos' is lined with more cares, and Porthos looks weary, and it's that sadness in their faces--a sadness Aramis knows was his fault--that drives home to Aramis--

He's making the right choice. 

"I'm glad you came," he says again, his throat thick. "I was being rash, again. My heart can belong to God and to--to the Musketeers."

_To you, to you, always to you._

They hold him closer, their arms so wonderfully warm and tight and real, and Aramis has not touched another person in so long, he nearly weeps with it.

Athos rests his forehead against Aramis', Porthos touches his to their temples, and Aramis sinks into it.

"It did not feel right without you," Athos confesses, quiet in the silence.

Porthos half-laughs, his breath warm, more familiar than Aramis' own heartbeat. "Something about all for one, I can't remember it now."

Aramis laughs. Presses into them and laughs, buries himself in them, fills himself back up with them and is at peace, peace, peace.

 

(It lasts as long as it takes to get them out of the monastery and onto the road, when d'Artagnan says as casually as can be, "By the way, you missed my wedding," and Aramis knows he will never know a moment's peace in his life, ever again.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the beginning of Dante's "La Vita Nuova." Roughly translated: "In that part of the book of my memory, before which there is little that can be read, one can find a heading that says, _Incipit Vita Nova: Here begins new life._ " Dante refers to meeting his beloved, Beatrice, whom he considered holy, an angel, a saint. Once the parallels really hit me I may have started crying? I love Dante.
> 
>  
> 
> [as always, if you need me!](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


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